Quoth the queer in the dock
Dear Bosie hold my c*ck
And I'd be ever grateful should you chomp it down
And for a fist of love, that schoen shove
He now weeps in a cell in Reading town
A junkie skeleton from France
Grey skin he doth lance
And smiles at a death-dose of smack
As the bloodflow grows, as every priest knows
Only art or God can bring him back
Sleeping in every gin den
Are mediocre men
Dutifully chasing their heroes in red ink
But the years fall by, and their passions drown & die
Til they can only
scream for yet another drink